There is a simple, ornate and resonant beauty in ordinary people.
The kind that don’t set out to achieve anything grandiose, the kind that are not caught in the traps of beauty, fame, desire or purpose.
The kind that simply exist, somewhat bewildered by their circumstances, but accepting of their lot.
Their aim, simply, is to exist for as long as they can, breed children, have a comfortable life, and then expire.
They have gods, but really, the gods don’t mean anything to them in any real sense. They only form a fairy tale that helps them sleep at night, resting peacefully in their obedience. They do nothing wrong, harm no-one and are content with that. When they expire, they will go somewhere nicer, because of their obedience.
At times, they may play basic social mind games, or have an interest in very small battles of ego-dominance. Some are affected by the trappings of consumerism, and aim for prosperity – but this, really, is only for comfort. The comfort comes in knowing that, if successful, they are on a slightly higher tier than their counterparts down the line.
Some may vicariously live through their children, imposing on them the excitement and grandiosity that they would never achieve.
But really, they are just simple, beautiful beasts.
They eat what they are told, view what they are told, do what they are told, and are what they are told. Like a grand Swiss clock, their gears and pullies whizz with a tremendous precision.
However, they fear easily, and get overly involved in the mechanisms of the machine – simply because they have not constructed a device of their own volition. But their fear, like everything else, is simple. Clean cut. Concise, and direct.
But despite the fear, there is a basic, quiet joy to their lives. While they may never, or at best, rarely, launch into a dissertation of the meaning of their existence, this is perfectly acceptable, as their existence already has all the meaning it requires.
To those that howl around the skirts of the void, face the wind of the sail, scream into the night and are wrecked with their own wrangling, there is a silent envy for these people.
Maybe, those born without great looks and youthful vigor, lofty ambitions, outrageous desires and existential paradoxes are truly the lucky ones.
Quiet, silent, unobtrusive – they skirt from the womb to the tomb with no mess and no fuss. The job is done. Their story ends, with the same quietness one who wrestles with the world experiences when they finish the final page of a book they read, in another feeble attempt to construct reason out of chaos.